


My Unintended

by robocakes



Category: Captain America
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocakes/pseuds/robocakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of Zombies and Love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Unintended

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zarabithia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/gifts).



> Author's Note: Hello, darling! I really hope you enjoy this fic. I had a bit of a trouble getting the hang of Bucky and Steve again, and I think it shows a bit, and I'm sorry for that. I just wish I kept better into recent comic history so I could write you a better fic! And I wish I knew better WW2 History than just Inglourious Basterds or I would have been all over that. Anywho, this kind of came about. I'm not exactly sure…how it came about, but it is. It's basically this: instead of waking up from when Steve froze, he wakes up to this, and meets Bucky. Oh, and there's kind of a zombie apocalypse going on. I'm sorry if it feels rushed and ffff I hope you love it. Sorry for the weirdness. I really hope you enjoy it. I tried! &lt;33333 Happy Holidays.

_This …wasn’t supposed to happen. _

_I wasn’t supposed to end up here. Not in this time. Not in this place. Not with these…_things_. _

_Despite the circumstances, however, I'm not sure if I would change a thing._

_…No. No, I would change everything. Even if I – even with Bucky, even with the time we’ve spent together, even now that I know he wasn’t dead, had I not… I would change everything, given the chance. _

_This absolutely should not have happened. _

\--

Steve watched James, quiet, careful.  Like they always were, and always had to be.

 

It was death otherwise.

\--

_I can’t fool myself, though, as much as I want to – as much as I desperately need to. You can’t stand against this. Can’t stand up against _that_ and come out alright in the end. War has done horrible things, war has shown me horrible things, but this is worse. _

_We won’t last. _

\--

A large hand runs through the dirty brown locks, in a consoling gesture.

 

Or an attempt at one.

 

The troubled look eases on James’ face for a moment, but then returns.  There really isn’t much that Steve can do about it.

 

It’s that thought that kills him.

\--

_I’d like to say we would. I would like to say that we are going to be the two survivors, the ones that stick it through and reach the very end of it all, that this…these things are going to die off. _

_I would like to say that._

_But I can’t. _

\--

The only people left in the survival outpost are the two of them. They’re the only ones left around this area, for what must be a long while in each direction. They’ve looked. But humanity isn’t stupid. Not that stupid.

 

They can’t be the only ones left out of the entire _fucking_ planet.

 

But they’re the only ones left in the here and now. And they’re running out of ammunition. They’re running out of hope, and they’re running out of time.

 

Not seeing another friendly face for a long while does that.

 

When dreams are torn apart by ragged screams, harsh voices, the sound of tearing flesh – when they can’t even sleep, when Steve doesn’t like leaving James awake more than he absolutely must – they start to run out of ‘oomph.’

 

The day drags on, and it doesn’t seem as if it’s getting any better.

 

Day turns to night, and it isn’t better.

 

Night shuffles aimlessly towards day once more, and it might even be worse than before.

\--

_There’s no sign of them stopping. What was comically known as ‘zombies’ – the walking dead, in the beginning…soon turned out to be not so comical. It soon turned serious, and fiction turned into fact before you could snap twice. _

_I woke up before it got too serious. When there were still people around. Still a lot of people.  I was just getting used to this new time period. Then the outbreak happened, and, well… _

_Things started to fall apart. _

_No one was sure how to handle it. It wasn’t anything like those movies. It wasn’t anything like the shitty pulp novels, the three-dollar comic books…no. They were fast, they were ferocious, and, yes, the only way to kill them was destroying the brain. _

_But they were smart, too._

\--

The warm metal of the pistol against his free hand isn’t as consoling as it should be. He shifts closer to James, pulling the blankets around them. They’re clothed, ready to run if necessary, and even as James’ breathing continues, up and down and up – it’s not as consoling as it should be, either.

 

Who knows when that breathing will just…stop, and fade.

 

24 hours till death.

24 hours till rebirth.

 

…And then, well. Who knows.

\--

_It’s just as hard as killing a normal human – no, harder. Normal people weren’t trying to spit or bleed or – who knows. They aren’t trying to infect you. _

_Thankfully, infection wasn’t the cause of death for most of us._

_They just got eaten._

\--

It’s still too quiet.

 

Steve realizes this, and tries not to.  Doesn’t want to realize this, doesn’t want to get up and have to fend off another enemy. Fend off what could have been a friend. What could have been a lover.  He doesn’t want to go through all this pain again, and…for what?

 

To live another few hours? Another few days? Another weary week, another manic month. It will just drag on, and on, and on.

 

He’s tired of this.

 

But he’s not going to let James die. Not again.

\--

_Sometimes I wish I never woke up._

\--

Slowly, he pulls his arm away from James. He doesn’t want to think about how happy he was when he found out that James was alive. He doesn’t want to think about the excitement, and the horror, and the tears – doesn’t want to think about the new-but-so-old touches, reacquainting with what was once familiar. Nor about the hurried whispers, the quiet moments being shared – his boyish grin when all went _right_, when they made it through another night, when they saved someone else to live just 24 hours more. He doesn’t want to think about this.

 

So he doesn’t.

 

He doesn’t think about this, as he pulls the gun close to him. He doesn’t think about this, as he shakes James’ shoulder.

 

“Bucky. Come on. Wake up.” His voice, though at a whisper, shattered the dead silence, which had been interrupted only by that soft breathing.

 

No birds.

 

There should have been birds.

\--

_He’s still sleeping._

\--

For a moment, Steve watches. He watches, and he wonders.

 

He thinks of how easy it would be. How easy it would be to have James continue to sleep – forever. How easy it would be to take his pistol, pull the safety off and – right into his heart. How easy it would be to slip him one of the two pills he has for if they ever get into a situation they won’t come back from.

 

He knows how easy it would be, but he never will.

 

Not without James’ permission. Not unless they’ve both planned this. Not unless they both want this, and agree on it.

 

Not unless there’s no hope left.

 

He pushes himself to stand.

\--

_Perhaps it’s for the best_.

\--

He has a bad feeling.

 

He hopes, but that little nagging voice will not go away. He goes to the window, and he looks out – he’s tense.  It snowed last night. He can see less than he likes.

 

James will be furious that he hadn’t woken him up sooner, as soon as that bad feeling struck.

 

…Movement.

 

Steve doesn’t even think about it, it’s become a natural reaction, now, as he double-checks the bullets and without speaking, shakes James awake. He’s tired. He doesn’t want to wake up, but he grabs for his own gun – in a daze from not enough sleep, but he is awake enough to be able to shoot straight.

 

They’ve had practice.

 

A wordless look is exchanged, and he jerks his thumb over to the window, heart pounding.

 

It could be nothing. But they’re not going to risk that, not again.

 

Then they hear the screaming.

 

It makes his blood jump—makes his heart stammer and skip, rev itself with such ferocity that his hands are already clammy and the shrieking is growing, growing, expanding, taking over and he allows himself to close his eyes - screw them shut - for those few seconds. The motion wishes away the sounds assaulting his senses, his hands gripping tight to the pitiful safety he's salvaged and it's a laughable attempt.

 

He should be used to it, but he isn’t.  He should be used to the screaming, but all he can think of when he hears the screams are his friends. All he can think of is death. All he can think of is how easily, how brutally they’ve been torn away from him. He hears them, and he can see Tony in his mind, he can see how fucking easily flesh tears when tugged hard enough, from enough hands. He doesn’t even blink, but it’s not Tony anymore – it’s Sharon. It’s Peter. It’s Nick, it’s – … It’s James.

 

Tonight it’s taking longer to push the screams away.  He doesn’t want to hear them anymore. He can hear the gruff growl accompanying them, the hard stomp of snow untouched till now, the scrambling towards _food_, the rough shove of the window as it’s pushed up before they reach it. In his mind, he pictures James having made his way over to the window and is scanning the area, ready to shoot, ready to kill and protect and the screaming just gets fucking louder.

 

It gets louder, and louder, and he needs it to stop. He _needs_ to stop, he needs to shut those voices off and actually think or he’s going to be sloppy and if he’s sloppy he’s going to hurt someone just like he hurt Peter and he can’t have that, he can’t hurt James he can’t – he _won’t _– let him die, not again, not after so fucking long and it’s only been so short and –

 

_Bang_.

 

It breaks and shatters, ripping along with it the concentration that he held so close to his overworked body and it's too much and too sudden for his senses to handle; and it's in an honest and unfortunate mistake that he takes this quick explosion, twitching so violently in response, fingers tugging and face twisting ugly.

 

He didn’t mean to do it.

 

He stares in stupefied horror at the scene before him. It can’t be happening. His eyes must have still been closed, and he desperately shuts them again, wishing the image away. Those few seconds couldn’t have been more than that – more than a few seconds. Not enough time to…

 

Oh god.

 

His eyes open and he hears screaming.

 

But it’s not the desperate hungry scream of the zombies; those are simply just background noises to him now.

 

It’s James.

 

James, sprawled out on the floor, shoulders slumped, breathing heavy. His finger loose and curled around the trigger of his own gun, the bane of this whole incident.

 

Funny how what saved them for so long would ultimately be the death of them.

 

“Bucky?” His voice is unnatural to his own ears, foreign – and the screams are just getting louder and louder but quieter and quieter as he finds himself kneeling down to the body.

 

It’s his fault, again.

 

Steve’s own gun is loose in his grip, now, as he stares down at Bucky, a grim smile on his face, despite the fact that he was _dying_, despite the fact that it was _Steve’s fault that he was dying_.

 

“Oh…c’mon. It’s not that bad.” Chuckles, looks down at his free hand pressed tight against the wound. They pull away, revealing a gush of bright blood. They exchange a look as the screams get louder. They know the zombies will do fucking anything to get inside now, excited at the fresh blood. It’s a drug to them. They won’t leave, and there’ll be too many and  -

 

“Cap. _Steve_. Stop thinkin’ so hard.” A soft cough, “We don’t have time for that.” And they didn’t. They didn’t have time, and he found his arms wrapping around the smaller body. He didn’t want to do this. Couldn’t do this, couldn’t –

 

“I’ll meet you soon, okay? Everything’s gonna be fine.” A pause. Steve couldn’t speak; found himself choking back everything he should be saying. He didn’t like this. He never found himself at a loss for words. This was all taking a toll on him – it was an obvious one.

 

“Steve, you gotta do it.” James moved his own hands to return the hug, ignoring the fact that he was getting Steve’s shirt bloody (well, he’d never liked that shirt anyway), and the fact that his pistol was pressed against Steve’s back. “And you gotta keep going, for me, yeah?”

 

A pause, and fright was in his eyes, but they were closed against Steve’s neck. They were both tired of this. It was for the best.

 

“Love you.”

 

It was mumbled against him, in their last embrace, before James forced Steve to pull away. They’d spent too fucking long doing this, and.

 

“Don’t let me get eaten alive.” A slightly wry grin. “You promised.”

 

Steve thinks of a time, as he watches James’ essence pour from that wound, where a hospital could take care of this. Where James would be better in a few months. That same time where he could fix a wound like this himself. When zombies weren’t chasing after him, when they didn’t get excited by the smallest of wounds, and they could heal.

 

He thinks of that time with a sad smile, as he raises the pistol and – _bang_.

 

The boy slumps to the floor, and his heart goes with it.

 

He can’t do this anymore.

 

The screams are louder, frenzied as they claw to get through that window. Above James’ head.

 

Blue eyes are fixated on James, and that lump won’t fucking go away. He’s dying, but he’s happy. He knows that things are going to get better.

 

Steve can’t handle this. He raises the pistol quickly, closing his eyes shut, pushing the screams away. Can’t deal with this. Not again. He has no one, now. When everyone you know is dead and gone…what then?

 

“…Sorry, Bucky.”

 

Finally, the screams stop.

 


End file.
